


The Snow Must Go On

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Humor, Locked In, Romance, Skiing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Merlin wants for Christmas is a chance to tell Morgana how he feels. Getting trapped in a ski cabin together was not exactly part of the plan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snow Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJsRandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJsRandom/gifts).



> Happy holidays AJ! Your prompts were very sweet, and I enjoyed trying out a new pairing :) I know you're a real Mergana lover so I hope I've done them justice for you!
> 
> Many thanks to the ever-patient mods, and my lovely and amazing beta C

The whole sorry affair kicks off one rainy Thursday in November, when a phone call wakes Merlin from a rather pleasant dream about Gillian Anderson and a romantic pedalo ride down the River Thames.

“Scully?” he says sleepily into the phone.

“Scully? God, are you dreaming about The X-Files again?” comes Arthur’s familiar annoying voice.

“No,” Merlin says, sitting up guiltily. “I said ‘sorry’. As in ‘I’m sorry you thought it was necessary to ring me at this Godforsaken hour’.”

“It’s nine thirty, Merlin, you drama queen.”

Merlin peers at the clock.

“So it is. Aren’t you supposed to be in my uncle’s lecture right now?”

“I am in it,” Arthur replies after an extremely suspicious pause. “Gaius just nipped out for a second.”

“Really?”

“Wow, Merlin, all these years of friendship and you still doubt my honesty? That is low,” Arthur says in a wounded tone.

“Caramel Macchiato for Arthur P?” says a voice in the background and Merlin hears the sounds of muffled cursing.

“That was, er… Gaius ordered in coffee for us. Christmas treat.”

Merlin loves his uncle very much, but Gaius is to Christmas what the Grinch is to… well, Christmas actually.

“You’re a lying liar who lies, _Arthur P_. But I won’t rat you out to Gaius… if you do the laundry this week.”

“But it’s your turn!”

“I heard Gaius makes truanting students stay behind over Christmas break to make up the lectures.”

“Fine!” 

Arthur takes what sounds like a very disgruntled sip of his coffee.

“Now that you’ve extracted your usual sadistic penance from me, can we talk about why I called in the first place?”

“I’m all ears,” Merlin says.

“Unfortunate choice of words there, Merlin.”

“You can do the laundry for a whole month if you like,” Merlin says pleasantly, kicking a pair of Arthur’s shoes aside as he wanders into the kitchen.

“Truce! Allow me to hastily change the topic. Uther sent me one of his bizarro formal emails today – complete with company masthead and everything – to tell me he has to work on a merger over Christmas.”

“Well that’s sad for him, but…” Merlin frowns. “Arthur, please don’t tell me this is leading to some wacky scheme where we dress up as ghosts and show Uther the true meaning of Christmas. Because I honestly think Ebenezer Scrooge was less of a workaholic than your dad is.”

“This is not a wacky scheme where we dress up as ghosts,” Arthur confirms. “I think we learnt our lesson last time.”

“Firstly, we promised never to speak of the great Halloween Disaster of ‘05. Secondly, can you get to the point, please?”

“The point is that Uther can’t go to the cabin in Les Menuires this year. It’s completely free, and you know what that means?”

“Oh God,” Merlin says but Arthur barrels on anyway.

“Ski holiday! The whole gang of us up in France, gliding down the slopes, drinking hot chocolate in the lodges, sampling French wine at the night by the fire…”

“There’s one slight problem with this idyllic picture, Arthur.”

“What?”

“I can’t ski!”

Merlin has enough trouble staying upright on his own two feet. Strap them to a pair of glorified planks and there’s no chance it can end well.

Also… there’s no way in hell he’s admitting this to Arthur but his ears get quite sore in the cold. And pink. As if they weren’t noticeable enough already.

“I’m not going,” he says quickly.

“Oh come on, it’ll be fun!” Arthur wheedles.

“Holidays that combine sub-zero temperatures with the constant risk of falling off mountains are not fun,” Merlin says firmly.

“You’ll be left out if you don’t. The whole gang’s going.”

“Who, exactly?” Merlin asks, suspiciously. 

“Oh, you know. Gwen and Lance. Elena and Mithian. Me and Elyan.”

“So three couples basically? You want me to be the seventh wheel on some hellish Alpine triple date? Me the only tragic singleton there?”

When exactly had Merlin started using the word singleton? Oh right, when he reread Bridget Jones’ Diary for the third time last month.

Didn’t Bridget also have a skiing related mishap? Well, that settles it. Merlin is steering well clear of this holiday.

Arthur has no intention of giving up, sadly.

“You won’t be the only singleton! Gwaine’s going, and-”

“That’s even worse!” Merlin interrupts. “Gwaine’ll be off shagging every person that skis into his path and I’ll be even more lonely and pathetic by contrast, and-”

“Morgana’s coming too.”

Merlin’s mouth snaps shut mid rant.

Well.

If Morgana’s going.

Perhaps Merlin has been a little hasty.

See, Merlin’s an only child and when he met Arthur aged six (and got over the initial supreme irritation that most mortals feel upon meeting Arthur), they sort of became like brothers. Arthur’s been there for so much of his life, they’ve been best friends for fifteen years; he can honestly say he loves Arthur more than he loves anyone in the world except his Mum.

And by logical extension, he should feel the same way towards Morgana. She’s Arthur’s sister, they’ve been friends for nearly as long, shared just as many formative experiences together. And yet…

Merlin’s feelings towards Morgana are not brotherly. They are not brotherly at all.

But he’s acutely aware that Morgana seems to feel entirely sisterly towards him. He knows she likes him, knows she lights up when he comes over, knows she sends him cute cards and letters through the post, texts him funny pictures and silly stories from her workplace. But it’s all with the overarching air of familial affection. To her he’ll always be the six-year-old who cried when Arthur spilt glue on his drawing, or the twelve-year-old who put itching powder in Arthur’s shoes, or the seventeen-year-old who broke his arm falling off the shed roof at her eighteenth birthday party.

The itching powder had actually been her idea, to be fair, and Arthur had very much deserved it. But that was the problem really. To Morgana, Merlin was just her little brother’s best friend. Nothing more than that.

Unless… unless this was the year he won her over. Made her see he wasn’t a kid anymore. And what could be more romantic than the snow-kissed Alps as a setting?

How hard could skiing actually be? It always looked fun on TV. And maybe he’d find he had a hidden talent for it.

And his ears didn’t get that cold. Really, when he thought about it, he had a whole new appreciation for snow. Truly, it was a blanket to hide a multitude of sins. And a great excuse to drink mulled wine, mulled wine being in Merlin’s opinion the pinnacle of human achievement so far.

“Hmmm,” he says, as though deep in contemplation. “I haven’t seen Morgana in a while.”

“Well, she has deigned to grace us with her presence.”

“Is she still seeing Vivian?” Merlin asks, voice aiming for nonchalant and ending up on pre-pubescent choir boy.

“Nah, that all fizzled out. So she’ll be as single as you are. Does that sweeten the deal at all?”

“I’ll think about it,” Merlin says airily and hangs up, because it sets an extremely bad precedent to let Arthur think he’s right about anything. He waits a dignified twenty minutes before texting Arthur to say he’s in.

 _Great!_ Arthur texts back. Then, a minute later:

_I better buy you a hat. We both know what your ears get like._

Merlin glares at the phone and then at Arthur’s shoes by the door. Does the corner shop still sell itching powder?

 

***

 

Five weeks later, they’re touching down in Les Menuires. Five weeks and one hour later, they’re unpacking in Uther’s ridiculously opulent chalet. Five weeks and six hours later, Merlin is discovering that skiing is most definitely not one of his hidden talents.

“Just bend your knees a little more,” Arthur shouts as Merlin careens off the path and nearly impales himself on his own ski. “Or a little less. Or something. How are you so bad at this?”

Merlin would hit Arthur, but that would require him actually standing up again, which he’s not so sure is ever going to happen. He makes a few helpless flailing motions, hoping that Elyan or Gwen might come and pick him up, seeing as Gwaine and Arthur are too creased with laughter to be any help, the jerks.

Unfortunately, the person who skis over to assist him happens to be Morgana, looking as lovely and well put together in her purple ski suit as she did on dry land. Why does she have to be so graceful? Compared to her he felt like a particularly clumsy five-year-old.

Speaking of five-year-olds, he was getting a little sick of the troupes of tiny French children skiing by with perfect poise. Being outdone by his peers was one thing, being bested by a load of foreign toddlers was quite another.

“Are you alright there, Merlin?” Morgana says, mirth sparkling in her eyes.

“Just leave me here to die,” he says and she laughs.

“That’s the Christmas spirit! Come on, lean on me.”

He rather enjoys being hauled to his feet by Morgana and the subsequent dusting off she gives him. 

“You’re doing fine, don’t worry about it. I was terrible when I began,” she says reassuringly.

“As terrible as me?”

“No, obviously not as terrible as you, I don’t think that’s possible,” she says, straight-faced.

“Look, the conditions are not helpful. Does there have to be so much snow? Does it have to be so cold? Can’t we ski indoors or something?”

“It’s a novel idea,” Morgana says merrily. “But I kind of love the snow, I’m sorry. Look how pretty and sparkling everything is.”

“That’s true,” Merlin says, but he’s not looking at the snow. He feels his heart do that funny flip-flop thing when Morgana meets his eyes, and he’s almost ready to open his mouth and say something horribly corny and incredibly true, like “not as pretty as you,” when…

A snowball hits him in the face.

“Arthur!” Merlin screams. “You motherf-”

A tiny French child stops to stare.

“Fudger,” Merlin finishes weakly and brushes snow off his nose.

Luckily, Morgana is already in the process of avenging his honour, and Arthur’s nearly knocked off his feet by the force of the snowball she lobs at him.

“And the Ice Queen lands a direct hit!” Gwaine shouts.

“Stop calling me the Ice Queen!” Morgana says indignantly, throwing a snowball at Gwaine for good measure.

“I call Arthur the Ice Princess!” is Gwaine’s defence, which makes Merlin and Lance burst out laughing.

“Elyan! Are you gonna let him talk to me like that?” Arthur cries.

“Of course not, Princess,” Elyan says soothingly and is rewarded with a snowball to the face from his boyfriend.

The ensuing fight is thick and fast, and at least one disgruntled German tourist gets caught in the crossfire. But Merlin’s too focussed on watching Morgana to join in, her bright eyes, her happy laughing face.

She is so wonderful. If he could make her laugh like that…

Well, in fairness she laughs like that ten minutes later when he stacks it on the nursery slope, but it’s not exactly what Merlin had in mind.

He broods about it that night over mulled wine in the chalet. It doesn’t help that he’s completely surrounded by couples. Not that Merlin doesn’t love them – Elena and Mithian are stupidly well matched, and Gwen and Lance’s romance would probably survive a zombie apocalypse. 

He also couldn’t be happier about Elyan and Arthur, even if they’ve only been seeing each other a few months. Arthur’s last relationship was with Cenred, an emotionally abusive scumbag who damn near destroyed Arthur’s self-esteem in the six months they were together. Merlin was in Wales the night that Cenred chucked Arthur out onto the street with half his possessions and a split lip – and he slept through Arthur’s calls. He’ll never stop being grateful for the fact that Elyan was around to pick Arthur up and take him home… or for the black eye Cenred was sporting the following week; presumably Elyan’s fine handiwork.

Arthur's fine now but Merlin was so worried for a while. Morgana had been too. She came round one night when Arthur was out and cried on Merlin’s shoulder, sobbing about how she should have protected him. Merlin nearly cried himself; he’d felt guilty for exactly the same reason, but he suddenly realised how ridiculous it was when he heard it from Morgana’s mouth.

He made her tea and told her she wasn’t to blame. But she stayed snuggled up close to him on the couch all night, even falling asleep with her head resting against him. Merlin sat frozen in place, not daring to move and break the spell, not wanting her to wake and move away from him.

His feelings changed after that night. It isn’t just lust or puppy love or an old schoolboy crush anymore. Seeing Morgana like that – so vulnerable and yet so fiercely protective, he couldn’t help but fall for her. 

He could have kissed her that night, but it would have been wrong. And since then… there’s never been a chance. Or at least not one he’s brave enough to take. 

Elena and Mithian have clearly spied him ruminating, because they pull him into a conversation about the book they’re all reading for their Queer Literature class. 

“I actually really like it,” Elena’s saying. “I mean, anything’s better than The Well of bloody Loneliness.”

“The Well of Loneliness is of its time!” Mithian argues. “You can’t compare the two; they’re like apples and oranges.”

Merlin laughs and both girls turn to him.

“Just… you said apples and oranges. And we’re talking about Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit? I thought it was funny…”

Both of them are looking at him like he’s grown another head but he hears a very soft snicker from behind him. He turns to see Morgana, and she wiggles her eyebrows at him. 

“Puns are best when they’re unintentional,” she says.

“I heartily concur,” Merlin says, feeling his face flush slightly.

Morgana glides off, and Merlin swivels round to see Elena and Mithian staring at him with knowing looks on their faces. 

“What?”

“You like her,” Mithian says mischievously.

“What? No, I don’t!” Merlin says, and realises he sounds about five.

“You _so_ like her,” Elena says. “Merlin and Morgana sitting in a tree...”

“Shush!” Merlin says frantically. “And can I just add that the level of discourse has really dropped around here?”

“Yeah, don’t be childish Elena,” Mithian says.

“Thank you-” Merlin starts, but Mithian interrupts.

“So what song are you gonna play at your wedding?” 

“Weddings are heteronormative and patriarchal,” Merlin says sulkily.

“Not if you have enough booze, they’re not,” Elena says bracingly. “Are you saying you don’t wanna become Mr Morgana Pendragon?”

Merlin gives in.

“Even if I did… she doesn’t like me that way.”

“And you know this because you’ve clearly communicated your feelings to her, yes?”

“Well, not exactly,” Merlin admits. “But I smile at her a lot! Surely she must have noticed that!”

“Merlin, you smile at everyone,” Elena points out. “Forgive me for saying this, but you’re something of a smile-whore.”

“How dare you?”

“She’s right Merls, you’re pretty loose with your smiles. You grinned at that Starbucks barista so long last week that he actually gave you his number.”

“Oh excuse me for trying to appreciate good service,” Merlin grumbles.

“The point is, you’re gonna need to try something a little more direct.”

“Direct is scary,” Merlin whines.

“We know, honey, but faint heart never won fair lady,” Mithian says, and then she smiles meaningfully at Elena. “Take it from us.”

“You two drunkenly hooked up at a wedding you both crashed; you didn’t need a particularly strong heart for that.”

“Hey, crashing weddings totally requires a strong heart!” Elena protests. “And if you don’t wanna take it from us, take it from Gwaine.”

“Eh? Where even is Gwaine?”

“Exactly,” Elena says triumphantly. “He’s out romancing that cute girl from the souvenir shop.”

“Oh, she was cute,” Mithian says.

“You shouldn’t have been looking!”

“You just said she was!”

“ANYWAY,” Elena says. “Be direct. Like Gwaine. Except hopefully less sleazy.”

Merlin sighs.

“Okay. I’ll give it a go.”

“Yay!” Elena says, chinking his glass. “Now go make some more mulled wine, the lesbians are thirsty.”

Mithian nods in agreement.

“The lesbians are always thirsty.”

“Pair of weirdos,” Merlin says fondly and wanders over to the stove. He brushes past Morgana on the way, and the heat of her bare arm sends tingles through him.

Tomorrow. He’ll talk to her tomorrow.

 

***

 

But when tomorrow comes, his nerve fails. And a day spent gracelessly tumbling over doesn’t help. He manages to persuade the others to go off and do the black and red slopes they want to without him slowing them down. Gwen, ever loyal, sticks with him on the nursery slopes for a while. Then Gwen, ever the primary school teacher, somehow ends up with a trail of enraptured French children behind her, chattering away excitedly.

“How do you always do this?” Merlin asks in wonder.

“Oh they’re so precious!” Gwen coos. “Look at their little pink cheeks!”

Merlin calls it a day at two in the afternoon and leaves Gwen to her coterie of admirers. He spots Gwaine in the lodge as he trudges back home, romancing a blushing waiter with a pencil moustache and a perilously balanced tray of hot chocolate.

At least someone’s having a good time.

He spends the rest of the afternoon dreaming up ways to impress Morgana and then the rest of the evening failing to put them into practice. When he goes to bed that night his dreams are full of her, and he’s almost disappointed to wake up and face the bleak reality.

The next day there’s a heavy snow warning.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go out,” Mithian says worriedly.

“Nonsense,” Arthur declares. “They said it wouldn’t set in till the afternoon. We’ll just go for a bit, then come home before it gets really thick.”

Everyone agrees, a little sceptically. Merlin isn’t exactly worried. He won’t be anywhere near the big slopes. He’s going over to explore the nursery slopes on the other side of the resort today, and he’ll probably only stay out an hour anyway.

And yet he takes a wrong turn at some point and by the time he realises he’s on a lift to the top of an extremely high slope, it’s too late.

He manages to ski off the lift without it hitting him in the back on its way down (a first for him), but his luck runs out after that. He has no idea where he is and there’s no way he’s going to make it down a slope this steep. He tries to shuffle towards the café across the way to ask for directions but he has to wait for all the skiiers to go past. When he finally makes it there, he finds the café all locked up. There’s no-one in sight and he realises that all the sensible people have returned home to wait out the snow warning.

There’s a cabin further down, about 50 metres from him. It might as well be five miles from the time it’s going to take him to get there. 

_Ugh._

Slowly, Merlin begins to snow plough down the mountain. It’s painstaking progress, but at least he hasn’t fallen over yet today.

No sooner has he thought that, he curves one leg too far in and promptly face-plants in the snow.

Well, at least no smug French toddlers were around to witness that one. Merlin tries to haul himself up quickly, to minimise the chances of being seen, but he’s a bit too eager. His right ski skids out from under him and there’s a sudden and painful wrench on his ankle.

It’s lucky the area is deserted because the stream of expletives Merlin lets loose might actually be grounds for deportation. But he can’t help it. His ankle is completely buggered. He manages to unstrap his ski and then draw his foot into his body, wincing.

He’s not going to be able to walk on it, let alone ski. And of course, today has to be the day that the snowstorm’s coming in, and already the air is getting thick and cloudy around him. How’s he going to make it back down to the valley?

Then he hears a woman shout his name and he freezes.

_Please let it be Gwen. Or Elena. Or, God, even Arthur putting on a high voice._

“Are you alright?” Morgana says, sliding into view, and Merlin’s humiliation is complete.

It had to be Morgana that found him, didn’t it? Couldn’t be anyone else? Had to be her that sees him curled up all pathetic on the ground from a completely self-inflicted injury?

Merlin debates just rolling down the mountain and ghosting out of this awkward situation forever. But he’s not a video game character, so he embraces the sad truth that he’ll have to front this one out.

“Oh hey Morgana, how’s it going?” he says nonchalantly. “Just thought I’d take a little break.”

“Why are you holding your foot like that?”

“I’m doing yoga?” Merlin says lamely, and Morgana frowns.

“Have you twisted it?”

“A bit, yeah. No big deal.”

Morgana raises one sceptical eyebrow.

“Can you walk on it?”

“Er, maybe?”

“Oh Merlin. What am I going to do with you?” Morgana sighs.

 _Take me home and keep me in your cupboard_ is what Merlin wants to say but that’s probably not an option, sadly.

“Maybe just help me to that cabin so I can wait out the snow? I can see you back home later.”

Morgana rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, like I’m really gonna leave you on your own.” 

“No, please, don’t let me ruin your day…” Merlin says, mortified, and Morgana snorts, bending down to take her skis off.

“Will you stop with your nonsense, Emrys? We can go call the resort medics from there. Now, can you stand?”

Yes, it turns out, although it’s extremely painful and Merlin’s very glad that at least he was only ten paces from the cabin when he stacked it. He manages to limp inside, ably supported by Morgana, who Merlin is not at all perturbed to admit has at least twice his upper body strength.

The cabin appears to be some kind of living space, although it’s obviously unoccupied now. Morgana helps Merlin into a slightly ratty armchair and then picks up the phone.

“No service,” she says after a moment. “Or the line's been cut and this is our own personal horror movie.”

“What kind of horror monster lives in the snow?” Merlin says.

“The Abominable Snowman, of course,” Morgana says swiftly.

“Ahhh right. Why exactly is he abominable again?”

“Who knows? Maybe he takes his guitar to parties and makes people listen to Wonderwall. That’s pretty abominable.”

Merlin laughs, but the motion rocks his body and he winces.

“Is it really bad?” Morgana says anxiously.

“No, no, just a bit… swollen,” Merlin says, peering down.

“Oh God, I should have taken your boots off! Hang on,” Morgana says, crouching down to ease them off. His ankle is definitely slightly bigger than normal, and a dull red colour.

Morgana hisses through her teeth. 

“We definitely need to ice that.”

She goes off to the little kitchenette, but the freezer is unsurprisingly empty.

“This is a bit make do and mend, but I could just pack it with snow?” she suggests. 

Merlin nods, and she slips outside the cabin. He spends a few seconds worrying how his hair looks, a few more trying to smooth it down with his fingers, and then a few more realising the futility and giving up. Even if he was having a good hair day to rival one of Gwaine’s, there’s nothing about his current position that could be considered seductive. Morgana probably feels like she’s patching up one of Gwen’s kindergarteners.

Morgana returns with a small heap of snow, which she wraps in a tea towel and then presses against his foot. It’s surprisingly effective.

“I can tell you were a Brownie,” Merlin says.

“And a Girl Guide,” Morgana responds, giving him a funny little salute.

“I was a Cub, but I never made it to the Scouts.”

“Why?”

“Trouble following orders,” Merlin says with a grin, and Morgana laughs.

“You rebel, Emrys. Did you know Arthur got kicked out of the Cubs?”

“No, but please say more about that.”

“He decided he wanted to get his fire-making badge early… so he set a chair on fire and nearly burned down the whole Scout hut.”

“Wow. No patience badge for Arthur,” Merlin says, and they both start sniggering.

“Speaking of making fires, this place is freezing,” Morgana says. 

She wanders over to the hearth and scans the log pile.

“You know how to light a fire?”

“Girl Guide, remember?” Morgana says cheerfully. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, you’d think I would, you’ve probably noticed I’m one of those super macho rough and ready types.”

“I had noticed,” Morgana says, deadpan. “I assume you’re going into the lumberjack trade after uni, yeah?”

“Not masculine enough for me,” Merlin says. “I think I’m gonna move to Australia and wrestle crocodiles for a living.”

He pauses for thought.

“Or is it alligators in Australia?”

“Nah, it’s crocodiles. Alligators are only in America. Oh, and China, but they’re endangered there.”

It’s not surprising Morgana knows that, since she works for an animal rights charity. She loves all wildlife. She sends Merlin petitions to sign almost every day, and she can’t stop adopting stray cats that she sees around her neighbourhood. Uther finds the habit extremely irritating. Merlin finds it adorable.

“I didn’t know that. I’ll stick to wrestling crocodiles then; I don’t want to pick on the poor endangered ones.”

“Yeah, stay with crocs, they’re the mean ones. Alligators are meant to be quite chill.”

Morgana sits back on her feet and Merlin sees the beginnings of a fire crackling in the hearth.

“Nice,” he says. “I’ll have to sew you a fire-making badge when we get out of here.”

“Can you sew?”

“Of course,” Merlin says indignantly. “My mum taught me.”

Then he remembers the lecture he had recently in his Gender and Culture class, and starts telling Morgana about the historical devaluing of embroidery as "women’s work". It’s a good three minutes before he even pauses for breath.

“And as long as visual art and sculpture are viewed as the traditional preserves of men, we’re going to keep having this sexist diminishing of female… oh my God, I’m the most boring person alive, aren’t I?”

Morgana laughs.

“Not at all! It’s really interesting.”

She’s moved to sit on the sofa opposite Merlin, and it’s quite a cramped space; their knees are almost touching. Merlin suddenly wishes he wasn’t encased in his puffy ski suit; he might be able to feel the warmth of her skin otherwise…

He chases away those thoughts and changes the subject.

“Tell me what you’re up to at work.”

Morgana starts talking about their latest campaign, and Merlin forgets to think about their proximity, he’s so engaged with what she’s saying. Morgana has a way of making the mundane sound fascinating; even photocopying leaflets takes on some new profundity when she talks about it.

“But it’s been a bit hectic. I haven’t spent as much time with the kitties as I should.”

“How many have you got now?”

“Four! I managed to get George and little Sefa rehoused. But I accidentally picked up a new one the other day, oops.”

“You are out of control.”

“I know. I was with Uther at the time, we’d just been out for dinner, and I heard this little mewling from the alley next to Belushi’s. So I went down and there was this tiny ball of white fluff huddled up in the rain, probably barely two days old. So I knew she couldn’t belong to anyone, no-one would let a kitten that young outside.”

“I take it Uther was thrilled?”

“Oh, ecstatic. He’d been planning on taking me home and having a long chat about 'my future' over a whiskey, but I spent the next hour fussing over the kitten till he finally left in disgust.”

She grins wickedly at Merlin.

“The big talk on how I should stop wasting my time in charities and get a real job had to be postponed.”

“Oh, is he still on that?”

“Unstoppably. He sends me job listings every other day! And they’re all like ‘Account Manager for Amoral CEO at Evil Industries Inc.’ and then he gets offended when I turn them down. Ugh, you know what he’s like.”

Merlin did know what he was like. Uther had always regarded Merlin with a vague mix of suspicion and disgust – solidified when Merlin went through his goth phase aged fifteen and starting showing up at Arthur’s in a tartan kilt, leggings, and full eye make-up on. 

“I do. Does he still refer to me as ‘that effeminate one’?”

Morgana starts giggling.

“He does! He still cannot come to terms with the fact that you’re not actually gay. He spent our entire teen years thinking you were going to jump Arthur at any moment.”

“And then Arthur jumped Leon and put an end to any speculation,” Merlin says gleefully.

“Yeah, and he probably thinks you’re to blame for that,” Morgana says, eyes twinkling. “Years of attempted corruption of his son.”

If only Uther knew the truth. Merlin can’t tell if he’d be more or less furious to find out Merlin had his sights set on Morgana all along.

Morgana glances at her watch. 

“It’s nearly eight now; the snow might have cleared a bit. I’ll check.”

The windows are too high and narrow to see out of so Morgana walks straight to the front door and swings it open. 

“Er, Merlin.”

Merlin turns to look and lets out a slightly melodramatic gasp.

Morgana’s standing in front of a literal wall of snow. It’s nearly two thirds the height of the door, and packed solid. There’s no way they’ll be able to get out through that.

“What do we do?” Merlin says, instantly panicked. “Oh my God, we’re gonna starve to death. You can eat me if you have to Morgana; I’m injured, it’s only fair.”

“Why do you always jump to cannibalism in a stressful situation?” Morgana says cheerily, banging the door shut again. “You said that when we broke that vase of Uther’s, and I still fail to see how eating each other would have helped us then.”

“How can you be so calm?” Merlin says. 

“Because there’s food in the cupboards, and plenty of wood for the fire, and someone will come looking sooner or later,” Morgana says easily. “I told Gwen I was going up to this slope. She’ll figure it out.”

She glances back to the door.

“It might not be till tomorrow, though.”

“We have to spend the night here?!”

“Relax, Merlin, there is a bed.”

Merlin is not relaxed. That bed is a small double at best; it was clearly made for a couple. How’s he going to survive a night pressed up against Morgana without making a total fool of himself?

Clearly Morgana isn’t feeling the same angst because the next thing she says is:

“We need to get out of these clothes.”

Merlin starts. He knew Morgana was forward, but he wasn’t quite expecting her to be so…

“Because they’re wet, and we can’t sleep in them,” Morgana continues.

Oh. That made more sense.

Except. 

Merlin’s only wearing thermals under his salopettes. He may not be an expert on fashion, but even he knows that thermal leggings are not the most seductive of clothing choices.

“Are there any clothes we can borrow?” he says hopefully.

Morgana starts rooting around in the cupboards and pulls out a pair of jeans.

“These look about your size!”

Perhaps Morgana has him confused with their mutual friend Percy, but the jeans are decidedly not Merlin’s size. He has to hold them up with one hand to prevent an indecent exposure as he limps across to sit on the bed. Morgana doesn’t seem to notice, she’s changed into some old fleece pyjamas she found, and she looks unfairly attractive in them, even with the ragged old jumper she pulls on top. She potters around, making a bit of cocoa in a pan, repacking the snow around Merlin’s ankle, tending to the fire. He just watches, slightly in awe of her capability. If it was him alone, he’d have probably just curled up on the ground and waited to be eaten by the Abominable Snowman.

Wow, maybe he really does jump straight to cannibalism. He should probably examine that tendency sometime.

“It’s a bit early to go to bed,” Morgana says after they’ve eaten some soup and crackers. “But I’m kind of exhausted.”

Merlin wishes he had an excuse to put off the inevitable moment they’ll climb into bed together, but he doesn’t. He just has to make sure he doesn’t do anything embarrassing in the night, like attempting to use Morgana as a human teddy bear.

Morgana removes the snow packing and wraps his ankle in some spare thermals, so he doesn’t bang it in his sleep. He’s still in a bit of pain but he can’t help but like the feeling of her deft fingers moving across his skin, sure and gentle.

When he finally slides into bed beside her, he makes sure there’s a suitable distance between their bodies.

Only, Morgana doesn’t seem to notice. She moves closer to him.

“We might need to huddle a bit for warmth,” she explains as she snaps the bedside lamp off.

“I don’t mind,” Merlin says, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Good,” Morgana says in the dark, and suddenly she’s pressed up against his body. He freezes slightly and then tries to calm down; it doesn’t mean anything, she’s only trying to keep the heat in…

Then he feels her hand stroking down his side.

“Morgana…” is all he can get out, his throat dry.

“Merlin,” she says, and she inches closer, so that he can just make out the features of her face in the dark, her lips only centimetres away from his.

He can’t quite comprehend it. Is she making a move? Or has his delusional brain finally taken over and supplied him with the very fantasy he’s been picturing for years?

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Morgana says, and her own voice is strained slightly. He’s rarely heard Morgana sound anything less than composed, and he suddenly realises how vulnerable she’s making herself in this moment, how she’s doing the thing he never dared to do, putting her feelings out there and hoping they won’t get trampled into the dust.

If she was this brave, then he can be as well. He kisses her.

It’s so wonderful. Her mouth doesn’t taste like heaven or perfection or any other cliché he might have mustered before it happened. It tastes like crackers and tiny bit of cocoa and somehow that brings it all home to him, that this is actually happening, that she’s real and she’s here and she wants him.

She kisses back, happily, eagerly. Some of her long hair falls across his face as she leans in, tickling his neck. He can smell her shampoo, fresh and flowery, and her lips are so soft and sweet, he doesn’t even mind the coldness of the hand that’s currently caressing his side.

They kiss for… he doesn’t know how long. It’s like being locked in a moment, like he thinks they could stay this way forever and be perfectly content.

But then she slips her hand down his jeans, and he freezes.

It’s too much, it’s too soon, he won’t be able to do it right… All of his previous nerves come rushing back, but this is worse. He actually knows she likes him now, and what if he’s not up to scratch? He’s only had sex with one woman before, and he thinks he was too awkward, too fumbly, because she never called him back after that. And it’s all very well to rehearse a moment over and over in your head, but now that he’s finally got a chance to have sex with Morgana, all he can think is that he’ll never be able to live up to that smooth and suave guy he is in his fantasies.

He pulls back, and Morgana breaks the kiss.

“Too fast?”

It’d be the perfect opportunity to calmly say that yes, it was a little fast, but he’d very much like to carry on kissing her. That was a natural thing to say, a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

Instead he says, “I can’t,” in an embarrassing trembly voice, and moves away from her.

There’s a short silence.

“Oh. Okay. I didn’t… okay.”

She doesn’t try to kiss him again, and why would she? He can’t explain himself, can’t trust his voice to speak, and to her it must just look like a rejection.

He wills himself to talk into the silence, but it’s gone on for too long now and she’s rolled over in the bed, her back to him. The few inches of space between them now feel like an unutterable gulf, like a neutral zone that he can’t cross. 

Merlin wants to apologise, wants to tell her that he likes her too much, that he can never get out of his own way, that he’s no good at things like this. He wants her to say it’s okay; to say she accepts him for his awkward, bumbling self. But it’s too much to ask. Morgana deserves better.

So he says nothing and lies there in the darkness until her breathing evens out. He doesn’t know if she’s asleep or if she’s just pretending, but he doesn’t dare to ask.

 

***

 

Merlin awakens the next day to the sound of shouting and banging on the door. Morgana is already out of the bed, walking to open it up, and Gwen and Arthur spill inside.

“Oh thank God!” Gwen says, enveloping Morgana in a hug. “I mean, we were almost certain you’d be here, but we couldn’t come until the snow melted…”

Arthur hugs Morgana too and then strides over to the bed. 

“Up and at ‘em, Merls, we’ve had half the resort out looking for you.”

“Merlin needs a doctor, he’s hurt his ankle,” Morgana says from behind him. Her tone is perfectly even, but he can’t see her face and his heart is thumping horribly in his chest. All of the memories of last night are flooding back to him, and he feels embarrassed and antsy and strange.

Luckily he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Gwen clicks into mother hen mode, flying over to the bed to peel back the covers and look at his ankle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, gently feeling around the swelling. “Go over to that café and call the medics, Arthur.” 

“I’ll do it,” Morgana says and she’s pulling on her boots before anyone can stop her. Merlin watches her leave, a sick sense of loss in his throat. That’s it now, he had his chance and he blew it. They won’t be spending another night in this cabin. It’s over.

“Is it really painful, mate? You look awful,” Arthur says, concerned, and Merlin just flops back down onto the pillow. His ankle doesn’t really hurt at all. The pain is somewhere deeper.

 

The medic says his ankle is sprained, not broken. She straps it up and gives him a crutch to use, then tells him to take it easy.

“No more skiing, I’m afraid,” she says.

Merlin tries to look suitably sad but at least that’s one bright spot in all this misery. He has an excuse to hole up in the chalet and watch TV all day instead of having to skid around all day in the freezing cold.

He manages to avoid Morgana and everyone for the rest of the day, claiming he wants to rest in his room. It’s about seven in the evening when he hears a quiet knock at his door.

“Who is it?” he says warily. He can’t face Arthur’s boisterousness right now, or Elena’s bluntness, or even Gwen’s concern.

“It’s me,” Elyan says. “I got you some toast and tea, can I bring it in?”

Merlin hesitates, then assents. Elyan’s so relaxed he’s practically a human bean bag; even Merlin can’t feel stressed out by him.

“How’s the ankle?” Elyan says, setting the tray down by the bed.

“Okay,” Merlin says, fiddling with the bedcovers.

“Remember when you broke your arm falling off that shed roof?” Elyan says. “And we all piled in the car to take you to hospital and the ER nurse kept telling us off for being rowdy in the waiting room?”

Merlin smiles faintly. Despite his injury, he has surprisingly fond memories of that night.

“It was a bad break,” Elyan says. “I think you were in a lot of pain. But you kept joking around, and the next day we all came round to your house and watched TV, and you were laughing away.”

“Yeah…” Merlin says, not sure where this is going.

“I guess my point is… you seem way more upset now over a much less painful injury. So I just wondered if there was something else going on?”

Merlin glances over. If the expression on Elyan’s face had been at all prurient or pitying, he would have brushed the question off. But Elyan’s not a gossip or a drama queen. He’s just calm, and decent. A good listener.

“Me and Morgana hooked up last night,” Merlin says.

To his credit, Elyan’s eyebrows only rise a little.

“Wow. I mean, I sort of guessed you liked her…”

“God, does everyone know?”

“I think even Arthur, King of Obliviousness, might have cottoned on.”

“Is he planning on giving me the ‘hurt my sister and I’ll kill you’ speech?”

“Nah, I think he’s scared of another lecture on toxic masculinity and patriarchal assumptions.”

Merlin takes a moment to be smug in the midst of his depression. That had been a good lecture, if he did say so himself. He’s pretty sure Arthur hasn’t told anyone they throw like a girl since that day.

Elyan comes over to sit on the bed.

“So what happened?”

“Well, we were sharing a bed for warmth…”

“You shared a bed? Playa!” Elyan says and then instantly wrinkles his nose. “Wow, I really can’t pull off ‘playa’, can I?”

“I am the exact opposite of a playa,” Merlin says glumly. “She tried to… I mean, I think she wanted to… you know… but I just froze. Ironic, considering we’d finally warmed up at that point.”

“Ah,” Elyan says sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us. I’m sure you’ll get another chance.”

“Are you kidding? That was my chance, and I completely blew it. I ruined everything.”

Merlin stares down at the blanket, desolate. “I guess there’s plenty more fish in the sea?” he says weakly.

“Actually I read that overfishing has, like, halved the ocean population in the last decade and… okay, not what you want to hear right now.”

“Those poor fish,” Merlin says gloomily. “We’ve eaten all their friends.”

“Oh Merls. I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but don’t you think Morgana deserves one more shot? I think you really like her.”

“She’s too good for me.”

Elyan shrugs.

“Yeah, that’s what I always thought about Arthur. Tall, blond, gorgeous – it wasn’t even worth trying to get his attention. I told him that when we finally got together. And do you know what he said?”

Merlin shakes his head.

“He said he’d had a crush on me for ages, but he thought I was too smart for him, and I’d never be interested. Sometimes you gotta ignore that little voice in your head and just go for it.”

Merlin thinks about this. Was it worth one more try? But the risk of even more humiliation loomed large…

Elyan patted him on the arm.

“Well, I better go. Arthur has hilariously somehow managed to get sunburn, and I promised I’d go rub aloe vera on it.”

He makes towards the door.

“Hey, Elyan?” Merlin says. “Thanks for taking care of Arthur. Especially that night when I was in Wales.”

Elyan smiles.

“Anytime.”

Merlin smiles back.

“Also, thanks for giving Cenred a black eye, I don’t think I complimented your handiwork before.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me,” Elyan says, a mischievous look in his eye.

“Eh? Then who was it?”

Elyan winks.

“Your girl packs a powerful punch, Merls,” he says and then he’s gone.

Morgana hit Cenred? It makes perfect sense when he thinks about it. She’s a lioness in defence of those she cares about. It’s one of the things he loves best about her. 

Loves. He does love her. He can’t turn it off, can’t pretend it’s not true.

Love’s a big deal, at least to him. It doesn’t come along very often. 

It probably deserves a second chance.

He’s getting out of the bed before he can think about it, grabbing the crutch and hopping down the hallway. He hopes she’s in her room and not in the lounge; he doesn’t think he can face doing this in front of all the others.

But there’s a soft voice saying “Come in” when he knocks, and he gathers all his courage about himself, and pushes the door open. 

She’s sitting on the bed and she’s in pyjamas again, her hair tousled, looking soft and sweet. He limps straight over and pulls her to her feet, cups her face between his hands and kisses her.

For a heart-stopping moment she doesn’t respond and his stomach drops, but then her hands wrap around his waist and she draws him into her body.

They stay like that for quite a long time before they pull apart.

“Last night,” Merlin says, because he wants to get it all out before she speaks, before he loses his nerve. “I was scared. I’ve only ever been with one woman. And you mean so much to me. I didn’t want to get it wrong. I didn’t want to lose you before we’d even begun and I just… I panicked.”

He’s laid it all on the line now and he can’t take it back. A funny sense of relief comes over him. However Morgana reacts, at least he’s said it.

But he wasn’t quite expecting her to react with a gentle slap upside his head.

“You idiot. Why didn’t you just say something? You don’t think I was lying there feeling the same way?”

Merlin gapes.

“What, really?”

“Yes, really! Couldn’t you feel how clammy my hands were? And I swear my legs were actually shaking!”

“But you… you’re…”

“What, Merlin? A person who doesn’t get nervous? A person who never feels intimidated or shy or vulnerable? A person who’s never scared? I think you’re thinking of Wonder Woman there. I’m just me.”

God, he’s so stupid. He’d even thought it for a brief second last night, when he tasted crackers and cocoa in her mouth. That the real thing was different from the fantasy. Different and so much better.

All those hours spent in his Feminist Theory class and he’s made the most elementary mistake of all. Morgana isn’t a Goddess. She doesn’t belong on a pedestal. She was just the same as him.

“I’m a moron,” he says, and she laughs.

“No arguments here. And I’m a moron too, sometimes. I think we’ll get along fine if you just remember that.”

His heart leaps.

“So you… you want to be together…”

“No, I’m gonna ask out Gwaine instead. Yes, I want to!”

Merlin’s so dizzy with excitement and glee that he physically can’t contain himself. Completely on impulse, he wraps his hands round Morgana’s waist and lifts her in the air, loving the way she shrieks and laughs.

Unfortunately he’s forgotten about his ankle. His leg wobbles beneath him and they end up falling into an ungainly heap onto the bed.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were so eager to get me in bed again, Emrys,” Morgana says.

Merlin disentangles himself and looks down into her eyes.

“I guess you could say I’ve fallen head over heels for you,” he says very solemnly.

There’s a pause and then Morgana bursts out laughing, and Merlin joins in. 

Morgana’s got a ridiculous laugh. It’s not pretty or delicate at all; it’s like a loud, raucous guffaw.

It’s not the laugh of Wonder Woman, or some demure Goddess on a cloud. It’s Morgana’s laugh and it’s silly and charming and real.

“Oh God, listen to me cackle,” Morgana says. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Merlin says, smiling down at her. “I completely love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and happy holidays to you all :)


End file.
